In a loop of darkness
by Kanui d'Astor
Summary: Sometimes, revenge of the good against the evil becomes darkness. In the aftermath of the battle, wizards have to be reminded that these horrors are nothing but their own creation. Dark content. Happy ending. DracoRemus.
1. Chapter 1 : Where everything began

In a loop of darkness

Chapter 1: One could have thing the world would be better…

Draco Malfoy considered himself anything but happy. The fifteen first years of his life had been passable: he had a proud father, a loving mother, a big house and the only shadow in the painting was the existence of Potter. Foolish of him to think it would last.

When his father had been sent to Azkaban, it had been up to him to bear and support the Malfoy name. His mother had taken him to meet the Master for the new heir to pledge allegiance. But the dark lord hadn't been what Draco had imagined him to be. He wasn't a grand wizard warrior, noble and cunning; the man was half-dead, gnawed by evil and a thirst for revenge.

Draco had realised that this very incarnation was his probable future since he loved darkness and hated Potter with a fury… But he didn't want to resemble the dark lord. He dreamt of a life in which he was feared and respected, in which he would do as he desired and nothing more. Death and torture weren't in his plans. To make fun of muggleborns by frightening them with death, he could, but commit cold-blooded murder was too much for him. But it wasn't his choice to make. Severus Snape was put in charge of teaching him how to be proper death-eater material.

He had always liked his Head of House. The man favoured Slytherins and hated Gryffindors as much as his students. Snape was a pureblood of a good family, a spy for the dark lord, the perfect example. But it happened that truth isn't always what you see. Since Lucius was in prison, Snape never let go of an occasion to put the man down. Malfoy hadn't been there for his Master, Malfoy hadn't taught his son the dark arts correctly; rumours that Draco's father had wanted to betray the dark lord started to spread. Draco denied them, but he couldn't stop people from murmuring. Some months later, Lucius was found murdered in his cell.

Draco was beginning to understand that, despite all appearance, Snape had never remotely appreciated his father. Quite the contrary. But the man was now dead, and the Potions Master directed his hatred toward the wife. Narcissa rarely took part in death-eaters' activities; she wasn't fond of them. Still, she was expected to live up to her husband's name and did a good job of it, joining her sister Bellatrix during raids. Draco's life was back in order.

But in his seventh year, it appeared that blood, killings, tortures and whatever insanity the dark lord invented to break his supporters were too much for Narcissa's resistance. She had protected her son the best she could, but it had been too much. She committed suicide after the New Year's festivities. Draco found her body broken on the ground.

What Snape preferred to teach him above all the rest was to fight the Cruciatus. Not that anyone could, but Draco's cries and screams reminded him of his own, when Lucius had trained him. Draco had considered denouncing the man to the aurors, but aurors hated him more than they hated Snape and would have arrested both of them for practising dark arts. And outside of the castle, Draco would be sure to get killed by death-eaters.

Seventh year came to an end. Draco feared the outside just as he feared remaining in Hogwarts with the Potions teacher and mates that accused his family of betrayal. He had wanted to go to Dumbledore on many occasions, but the headmaster had either been occupied with Potter and had refused to hear anyone else or Snape had been at his side. And in no way could Draco have made his move with a death-eater present. He was forced to leave the school, having not resolved his problem.

Dumbledore was being spied on, that Draco knew for sure, just as he was aware of eyes on him, cataloguing each of his moves, preventing him from running away. He couldn't send the headmaster a letter. He'd be killed before it even reached the old man. On his eighteenth birthday, Snape came and accompanied him to be marked. The feeling of the tattoo on his arm was worse than all the Cruciatus he had been put under. His forearm seemed to burn from the inside; it was like a leash that bound him to the dark lord. Unfortunately for Draco, he wasn't an Occlumens and had never been taught to hide his thoughts from one. Voldemort was, though, and it didn't take long for him to notice that his new recruit was far from willing. When Draco failed in performing the Avada Kedavra on a muggle baby, and thought of nothing else than run to Dumbledore, he was condemned.

The feeling of the whip on his bare flesh, of the coldness of his cell's floor under his body, of the rivers of blood that poured from his thighs became his share of daily activities. His whole life now resumed in a three by three room, no window, a door that let no light pass, four walls, and a floor. He occupied his free time with imagining he was dead. But he had always been timorous and the remembrance of his mother's unmoving body kept him from acting on it.

How many years passed this way? Was there someone outside that wondered where the Malfoy heir had disappeared? Draco had stopped hoping.

The war ended. Voldemort was destroyed, death-eaters arrested. Draco discovered that he hadn't been the only one locked in a cell for what had been four years: many young Slytherins hadn't been able to follow the madness of their parents. But nobody cared for the wounds and blood and dust that covered their bodies: they were death-eaters. Some were sent to Azkaban along with actual murderers, others were offered to heroes of the war as compensation for their lost life. Draco was given to Snape. The man had asked for him. And the young man had no illusion as to what and why the Potions master wanted him.

Why hadn't the man been taken by aurors? Because he had been a traitor from the beginning. Why hadn't he helped Draco and the Slytherins? He could have saved them from the dark lord, from their fate. He hadn't cared. Dumbledore hadn't either. No one had looked twice at them. Their crime was being born in the wrong place, at the wrong time. They were accused of having not fought their parents' education.

Snape had no love for the whip, but he was brutal and rough, more than the average death-eater had been. He used his bare hands. During his isolated years, Draco's hair had grown long, and Snape took pleasure in dragging the young man to his bed by it. It reminded him more of Lucius, of the hatred he hadn't been allowed to assuage. Draco ended beaten up, not able to stand, barely breathing.

He was tired of life, yet he still had no bravery to end it. Potter sometimes visited. He had obviously reconciled with a man he previously hated. That wasn't Draco's case. Bellatrix had killed herself during the final battle to avoid being captured, taking away Potter's chance to avenge his godfather's death. The woman's nephew would pay in her place. Potter didn't come for sex but for blood.

Many did actually. They visited Snape for talk then visited Draco to put their minds at ease with the dead ones of their families. Such acts weren't common knowledge in the wizarding world but those who performed them knew each other. And they were an awful lot. The others suspected but had no idea of what was truly taking place not that far away from them. Not that they cared much. Who cared for death-eaters and their children?

When Snape had begun calling him Lucius on a daily basis, Draco had thought the man's sanity was failing. Each night, he had called the young one to his bed and reproached him for what his father had apparently done. What Draco had understood later was that Snape was in perfect control of all his mental capacities and trying to get Draco to be Lucius in order to be liberated from his own past.

Draco wondered if his past roommates were still alive. He had long resented them for treating him as they had during his seventh year, but their actions now seemed so faint and trivial that he would be genuinely pleased to see one of them, if only for the company of someone that wouldn't consider him a slave. He knew that Crabbe and Goyle had been sent to prison and that Zabini had been chosen by an auror, but that was all information he had.

When Snape woke up on his good side, he took Draco out with him to shop for potions ingredients. They had to walk through Diagon Alley. Passers-by eyed Draco with disgust and thanked the skies that there had been good and brave people to stop these madmen that murdered and killed young children; parents showed him to their offspring as the bad example, the monster; some insulted him to his face. None touched him. They later came to Snape's for that. One day, a man hadn't known there was a place in which he could privately let go of his rage and had punched Draco. With a dark look, Snape had dared him to flinch under the blow.

The man didn't like to see the scars on Draco's back, the ones that had been made by death-eaters. He enjoyed hurting perfect skin for Lucius had never been anything but perfect. That was the only thing Draco was allowed to do in his spare time; that meant when he wasn't getting raped or beaten up, he would prepare concealing potions in order to camouflage the marks.

On this day, in some hours, when night fell, Draco would be twenty-five. He would have spent exactly seven years in captivity and suffering. Seven years. It seemed like yesterday when his father had been taken to Azkaban. He had long given up the hope that someone would ever come for him. His nerves were beginning to tighten, his mind to give in to madness. Tears fell down his eyes, and he turned toward the clouds that hid the half-moon. Why was he treated this way? What had he done? What did they reproach him with that was the truth? How did some bickering when he was a child deserve such a fate! Voldemort had been mad, but the ones that now directed the wizarding world weren't any better if they could let such things happen.

And as he fell asleep on the floor, naked, too exhausted by Snape's violating him to move, he didn't know that, through the open window, Wind had heard his complaints.

End of the Chapter One.


	2. Chapter 2 : Inside the loop

**Author's Note:** My most faithful reviewer: Morena Evensong, asked me, I quote _"Is it that this is a sort of conspiracy between a select few, or does society at large just ignore it in an "I don't want to know" sort of sense?"_ The answer is the second solution. Part of the situation is explained later in the chapter.

To Tommalfoy, thank you for reviewing. I'm doing as quickly as I can, considering that I'm writing two stories at the same time.

To Anne, I'm sorry but the Draco/Remus will have to wait some more. I'll get to it, promise. They'll be happy together at length. Thank you again for reviewing.

And to the best, thank you Mariann, for making a correct fic out of this tangle of mistakes.

You're all great. Thank you! I love you!

o-

**In a loop of darkness**

**Chapter 2: … but there's always darkness looming round the corner.**

Draco was exhausted, tired by life. His body was sore from being used, his mind clouded with insults and reproaches. In his chest, his heart was getting heavier each passing day, threatening to explode from the inside. He hated them. Why were they treating him so? What had he done to them? But these questions never got answers.

Six months ago, his twenty-fifth birthday had brought a novelty in his life: Snape's weekly visits in Grimmauld Place. The Manor had become quite famous since the end of the war; it had been the core of the Resistance, the Order of the Phoenix's HQ, and people filed past the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of a hero. Recently, they also got the added show of broken death-eaters.

Draco had wanted to see Slytherins again; he was granted his wish. Pansy's face was still red and gaunt from tears that had long ceased to flow and from fear that would never go. Blaise's eyes were blank and his voice was so dull and lifeless that Draco shivered each time the young man answered his master. Noticing how people got bored of them and their non-existent reactions, Draco had begun observing and imitating them.

He no longer cried out when slaps and blows hit him; he had stopped weeping in silence when Snape punctured him open. But the insensitive act had attracted him too much; it had become a drug to take refuge in this world devoid of emotion and sensations. His personality had grown inconsistent. He barely talked above a whisper; his brain didn't register anymore what his sight came upon. He was a shadow. He obeyed orders without listening. He had learnt acting without using his brain. They could have asked that he licked the floor and he wouldn't have noticed. Maybe had they…

The many residents and visitors of the house had gone on the pitch, on the other side of the Manor, to observe a game of quidditch, except for three men. In a more private part of the property that couldn't be seen from the outside, Draco was standing next to Snape's chair, a pot of tea in hand; half of a cake remained on a tray, the serving knife lying at its side. The man was sitting in the garden and conversing with Mad-Eye. For them to chat nicely they had to discuss death-eaters and their hatred of anything related to the kind. Draco was their favourite subject.

"This is where all Malfoys should be!" claimed the old man, "Serving us. After all they did to the wizards… It's their fault we have to hide from muggles."

"I can't say I miss their company. I have enough of wizard brats. Anyway…" Snape stroked the inside of Draco's thighs and drew the servant toward him to have better access, "Malfoys are much better sluts than death-eaters."

Mad-Eye sniggered. "I always wondered what you did with him…" He observed the young man, passive under the ministrations. Draco seemed inattentive to the actions that were taking place. He was a beautiful marionette, waiting to be used again and again for his master's pleasure.

Snape smirked. "Draco…" he called almost softly, "Why don't you service our friend here?"

Mad-Eye opened his eyes wide at the suggestion. But the young man was already executing himself in a whisper and kneeling in front of him, hands massaging his legs, lips caressing the fabric of his pants. "You won't find better in all Great Britain," commented Snape lightly. When Draco's teeth connected with the buttons and twisted them open, Moody gave up any remark he might have had. The boy was good. "You trained him well," he noted.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "You've seen nothing…" He stretched out his right leg and harshly pressed his foot on Draco's back, forcing the young man to his task. Mad-Eye gasped at the added pressure and wrung Draco's hair. "Ah… A pity Lucius was killed," approved the auror. "If only he could witness the scene."

Snape smirked again. "I definitely hope he is." 'Wherever he is," he mentally added. He had often wondered if the man truly was dead or had put on an act to disappear from the world. But if it were the case, would he have abandoned his son? Unseen or felt by the two men, Draco stirred to life, his heart dark and resentful. How did they dare treat his father so!

Mad-Eye's breath quickened and slight beads of sweat formed in the curve of his neck. Snape was certainly exacting with his possessions… He felt the distinctive rush of pleasure in his body, his lips opened in a silent sigh…

Snape observed the duo with his never-ending smirk. The sight of Moody having difficulties breathing was distracting. But suddenly, the man went white. His eyes no longer showed lust but dolour. 'What?' Snape wondered, half-amused, 'If he's having a heart-attack, I'll make sure the reason is written on his gravestone…'

Mad-Eye let out a cry of horrible pain and Snape frowned. He went to take out his wand but in a dash, Draco got up, caught the pot of tea and crashed it on Snape's head, throwing the man on the floor, unconscious, his forehead letting blood escape. Moody's eyes were half-shut by the dolour, his left hand pressing inside his thighs to stop the flow of blood, his right one fumbling in his robes to find his wand. He had no time. Draco had swirled back to him, holding the serving knife, grasped the man by his hair and plunged the tool through the unprotected throat.

Then it was silent. Draco panted with exhaustion. He had just killed two people. Hadn't Fate a sense of humour? When he had needed to kill, he had been unable to do it, had been punished for his weakness by the death-eaters, then punished for his courage by the aurors, and now… Now he truly was an assassin.

Cries of joy and amusement were still coming from the pitch. One would surely come soon. He couldn't remember who had been present before. His memories were only blurs. He searched the robes of the men and collected their wands, then ran. The woods weren't far away and he quickly reached them, his tired legs getting strength from his resolution to survive. No, he wouldn't die here! He had refused to go to the dark side and that was the way they had thanked him! They had insulted the dark lord and his methods but could they really pretend to be better? But they would pay, all of them, for the seventh and a half years of his life that he had spent in servitude! The need for revenge was all they had left him! And he knew exactly where to begin…

o-

The game was going full swing; Harry was preparing his famous version of the Wronski Feint, when Dumbledore felt it. There was something going on. He quietly got up, careful not to trouble his neighbours or the players and headed for the inside garden. At each step he made, his heart swelled more. The atmosphere was wrong. What had… He stopped abruptly in his tracks, horrified at the sight.

Mad-Eye was bent on his chair, gaping, his eyes staring at nothing, hands hiding a pool of blood that formed between his legs, a knife deeply drove in his throat. And Severus… Dumbledore ran to the corpse, stretched on the ground. There was a deep gash on the head and blood poured down heavy and freely, but the man was still breathing faintly, so faintly that Albus almost missed it. He cast a Blood-Drying spell on Severus and sent a mental call to Harry.

Soon, the young man was rushing up to them, followed by the other players and spectators. The scene caused many to hide their eyes. They called for mediwizards. Giving the state Snape was in, there wasn't much choice as to the place he had to be sent.

"It's Malfoy!" raged Potter, his teeth clinging, fists clenched. "He escaped. Let's find him; he can't be far away."

When the Ministry had captured them, death-eaters had been branded with anti-apparating hexes. The fugitive could only run. A small group was formed for what would be more of a hunt than a search. They cast spells on the forest to check for any humans, but Draco wasn't there. They reached a small borrow, immediately cheered by the inhabitants. Those blanched when they were told of the situation and all ran to their house, closing doors and shutters. A family wasn't to be seen alive ever again.

Aurors soon joined the group in their search; the entire region was under survey. It was a neighbour that called for them in the end of the afternoon: the old man was used to hearing the bickering of the two adolescent daughters of the family, their houses being near, but this evening, everything had been calm. It was nothing more than a bad feeling, for the children could have been too frightened by the menace to have a quarrel, but when the old man had dared go out of his house despite the danger and knocked at the door, no one had answered.

The officials had forced the door. The bitter odour only warned them of the massacre that had taken place. First, they discovered the body of the mother in the kitchen. She was laying face to the floor, blood spreading under her. She had probably been cooking when Malfoy had surprised and slaughtered her. There was a door that led to the kitchen in which a dormer window was broken. Surely the escapee had entered there when the family had been out to applaud the group of war heroes.

The father was in the living room still sitting in an armchair, his newspaper clutched in his contracted hands. Just as his wife, he had seen nothing coming. Throat opened, just like her. The last corpses were upstairs, in a bedroom. The two sisters had been together when the assassin had arrived. The aurors felt the remnants of a soundproof charm on the place. The first girl, the oldest had suffered the same fate as her parents; the younger one had probably tried to scream and flee before she was found in the corridor. She had been stabbed in the back.

At that moment the aurors noticed that every victim's wand had been taken. Surely Malfoy had also stolen whatever he might need. A criminal team analysed the house for any indication of the whereabouts of the killer. After some hours of study, they concluded that Malfoy was in possession of not only wands and knifes, which he didn't mind using, but also brooms, two at the least, and Flow Powder. He had used the fireplace to get out of the house, not long before the aurors had arrived. The trail had led them to Diagon Alley, to the shop of Ollivander. There, they found the sixth corpse. Malfoy had taken all the wands in the store. Six hundred seventy three wands total.

Such information changed their view of the problem. Malfoy wasn't attempting to escape them; he was planning on mass destruction.

The next days were like Hell. Malfoy was apparently killing at random, sleeping in the house for a night, and then flying away. When aurors began placing tracing spells on the skies, he used the powder. At the end of the war, Knockturn Alley had become a place for his kind: thieves, assassins, vampires, werewolves, death-eaters in flight, their families, all those that were rejected by the laws or refused to give up some of their rights. It had been almost disconnected from the rest of the world and the officials had abandoned regulating the inhabitants of what they now called the Hole. It was an unspoken truce: they were allowed to live but they couldn't get out without being tracked. Very few had conserved their wands since most had been confiscated by the Ministry. It had been that or Azkaban. And it was in this rat-infected, dark magic-filled undercity that Malfoy took refuge.

Two-dozen aurors went to the place in order to meet the rulers of the fallen alley. These people had been chosen for their intelligence or strength; their power wasn't recorded by laws or texts but they were accepted as such nonetheless. The officials wanted them to hand over Malfoy or the Hole would be taken by force. One of the rulers, the oldest, a half-vampire by the name of Kilch, smirked. Some seconds later, twenty-three bodies were carried away and buried forever.

The chief orchestrated a time for the funerals then left the command to another ruler and headed for a little house dug underground. Upon the last years, basements had regularly been transformed into hiding places, then, as the inhabitants were more and more fearful of the aurors' attacks, in habitation. Many floors had so been created where people spent their everyday life. Such a situation had later appreciated the rulers, also had the advantage of keeping the Ministry from approximating the population rating in the Hole. They didn't know when people were born, when they died, if some arrived or departed. They thought they were faced with four little hundred inhabitants whereas the last internal census had totalled a little more than one thousand.

All this time, they had been waiting for something, a little change that would allow them to leave the Hole so that the newborn children wouldn't grow up in this dirt. Draco had materialised this hope. When he had arrived, covered in blood that weren't his, carrying shrunken bags in his pockets, their first thought had been to hide him as deep as possible. Draco Malfoy, one of the broken, fallen, convinced death-eater, slave of a hero. How could he be there? He had narrated his escape, omitting nothing of the horrors he had committed. But how could they blame him? It was clear that he hadn't all his wits about his left. Just as he was their hope, he had kept none. All he wanted now was revenge. And he brought them the means for it.

There had been more wands that they had ever seen. Enough to create a small army. As soon as it was thought of, the idea circulated in the Hole, finding supporters. People had enough of living there, of the Ministry that searched each day for a new way of destroying them and their families. The aurors had been welcomed arms in hand.

o-

A month later

Dumbledore sighed and rubbed his temples. Never would it be finished. This war had no end. He sipped some of his tea and analysed once more the map on which they had compiled the last attacks of the rebels, hoping he could find a link between them and, by so, the place of the next one. After the news that Malfoy had been accepted and placed under the protection of Kilch, never had a public place been attacked again. Only soldiers of the alliance were killed. The true nature of the fights was a political war, not a rebellion.

A week ago the most horrible butchery he had ever assisted at had taken place. Against his opinion, the Ministry had decided to lead a frontal attack against the Hole. In the process, they had lost nine tenth of the aurors and half of the Order. The Order of the Phoenix had been reformed the moment the menace had shown. Albus had let Harry take the command, for he was too old for that anymore. His magic was lessening and the tiredness of his body didn't allow him eccentricities. Helpless, he had looked at his friends getting killed. He had been spared in the fight. Why? He had no idea. Certainly Fate had something else in store for him, more atrocious than death by knives.

The rebels preferred to fight with weapons other than magic if they could. The survivors of the alliance had painfully learnt that in the small lanes that constituted the Hole, where there was no visibility, a knife was much more practical than a wand.

Despaired that he would never find something of use, he gave up his map and got out of his room. In the great Hall of Hogwarts, Harry was shouting along with other members. In the middle of the screaming, Dumbledore couldn't grasp whatever they were saying. That had no importance now. At the end of the Second War, he had given the place of Headmistress to Minerva and retired in his little cottage, at the far North of Scotland. Memories had been too strong for him to stay; still, he visited often to keep news of everyone. But he hadn't liked what he had seen…

Albus left the doorstep without a noise and got out of Hogwarts. There was only one thing to be done. Only a handful of persons that could help… Without resolution, he stepped in the forest. He walked straight ahead for two days. They were surely all searching for him by now.

He came into view of what he had been heading for: the last House of Seers. They were waiting for him, all dressed in black, covered by hoods. They hated strangers and wanted nothing more than to live alone, far away from the real world. But they had helped Dumbledore once, they had accepted to contribute to Voldemort's second fall at the price that the location of their house would always remain a secret.

He didn't talk; there was no point: they already knew why he was here. These people were seers from tip to point, there was no comparison with what Sybil had been, occasional medium. They had seen past, present, and future; they were the instruments of the immortal Wind. What was it that they ignored about human nature?

"What do you expect from us, Dumbledore?" one suddenly asked, his voice shadowy.

"Help for the remaining," he murmured, wondering why they were asking a question whose answer they already knew. But Wind had its way that shall not be perturbed.

"Which ones?" inquired another, a woman this time.

And in front of them, the all-great Dumbledore felt speechless, powerless. Which ones? That truly was the question. They had helped once, and Wind had seen what wizards had made of their world. How low and perverted they had fallen. And he, who had held the power to change everything in his hands, had let it happen.

When the fights had ended and Voldemort dead forever, so many had already preceded him. The world had needed an outlet for his hatred, his need of revenge. It had been the children, innocent victims of their parents' madness. But what other choice could he have made?

A branch stirred next to them and Albus swirled toward it. He took a step back at the sight of a hidden-faced young man and eyed the seers in surprise and relinquishment. If this was their choice, he had nothing to add.

Before he could make any move, his wand was snatched away from his pocket, his hands bound in his back and his eyes covered by a scarf. He didn't pose any resistance.

The rebels took him to a secret entrance of the Hole and he felt they were going downstairs. At length, he was released and could observe where he had been taken. The place had no window and was only lightened by some weak candles. It was a vast room that seemed to be used for everything. A little group was eating in a corner; children had been playing in the middle and stopped at his arriving. The looks of hatred in their eyes were out of place for children of their age. One of them spat at him, never letting go of his glare. Albus was stricken. Was that the world that he had helped create? Holes for babies that had known nothing of the war?

Coming toward him was Kilch. The vampire saluted the young man before beckoning them into following him. Without fear, he showed his back to Dumbledore: the old man's enemies were more aware than his own friends that he had no strength left to fight.

They arrived in a small office and Kilch offered Dumbledore a seat. Draco remained standing. The young man vaguely eyed the chair with disgust then gave his full attention to the ruler.

"I will be straightforward," said Kilch, "We know why you made the decisions you made and we understand even if we don't back them up. I'm offering you the possibility to join and help us now."

Dumbledore's heart stopped. The rebels wanted to make a better world. They were purging what remained of the heroes then the fights would stop. But that had been the Order's aim too, before they reached the point of no return. And they were his friends; this was Harry… "I can't," he recognised in a breath.

Kilch didn't seem to mind the refusal. "Draco, strip," he ordered. Albus frowned. The vampire looked intently at him and the old man wondered what was the point. Malfoy was taking off his cloak and shoes and socks. The young man got back up and removed his shirt.

Dumbledore flinched and moved back in his chair. But Draco didn't stop. He took off his pants and underwear and stood nude in front of the two men, his face only still hidden by a mask.

Albus couldn't take his eyes away from the damage on the young body, horrified at what he saw. When Draco turned his back on them, the old man had to cover his mouth not to cry out. There wasn't a place that hadn't been spoilt by aggression and torture, damaged beyond repair. Waist and buttocks could only be guessed behind the scars. Dumbledore's eyes moistened and he couldn't stop the tears. When had that happened? How could…

"Half of it was done by death-eaters, the rest by the precious innocents you were so keen on protecting during the last war," answered Kilch to his unspoken question. "Incredible what lies behind concealing potions, isn't it? Maybe you want him to remove the mask?" he asked with a sneer.

Albus had to stop his quivering and swallow his tears to succeed in muttering negatively. In silence, Draco dressed again. Kilch was waiting for an answer. At last, when clothes camouflaged every piece of flesh, Dumbledore asked for some time to think.

"You have one day. Draco, take him to a room."

The young man nodded and Dumbledore couldn't help but envisioning a face, beaten in the image of the body, making the move. Malfoy led him through dark corridors to a small cupboard. It wasn't much, only a bed and a washbasin but it was all he needed for now: water to cool down his forehead and a mattress to lie on.

"Shall you want to shower, washrooms are at the end of the corridor."

In a dash, Dumbledore disinterested himself from the observation of the room and turned to Draco before the man could go away. "Wait… I…" he hesitated in voicing his wonder, not knowing how the rebel would receive it. "I… Nothing, I'm sorry." He hadn't found the courage.

He was lying on his bed, eyes staring at the darkness when he heard the knocking on his door. It was Kilch. The vampire stood and indicated by a small sign of the hand at Dumbledore to remain sitting.

"We were attacked tonight," the ruler narrated without emotion. "The last of the aurors is dead. The Ministry is ours, along with every political institution. The Order and Hogwarts have fallen. You are the last."

His heart stiffened. "Why didn't I hear anything?"

"They never entered far enough in the Hole for the noise to reach here."

Plain and simple. They were all dead. And he hadn't been there. When they hadn't seen him in the morning, they had probably thought that he had been abducted by the rebels and had planned another attack to retrieve him, despite the fiasco of the last one. Kilch left him alone in his thoughts.

Albus lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He wasn't to open them again.

o-

The sun was shining on the horizon, illuminating the room with rays of light. On the floor, sleeping prostrate, was a naked and beaten young man, soft stains of blood tainting the parquet under him. He was slightly shivering from the cold that was entering the room by the open window but that wasn't enough to disturb a sleep that was much needed. It was rare that his master had no visits in the evening, from people that asked for Draco's presence during the night after Snape had finished using him. But this particular day, the young one had been granted with a complete night of sleep. It was so much more than he was used to that he appreciated it till he would be forced to get up.

On the rich bed, a man awoke with a start, panting and trembling with fear, sweat drenching his back and sheets. His eyes were aghast as he went to look at the unaware boy. Realising what he had lived was only a bad nightmare, he sighed profoundly and planned at making the youth pay for his fears.

End of Chapter 2.


	3. Chapter 3 : Second turn of the loop

**WARNING!** : This chapter is confusing because the title is slowly obtaining all its sense, and simply because the story's framework is really complicated. I promise that the explanation will be given at the beginning of chapter 4. Still, some of you perceived what was happening at the end of chap 2, and it would be utterly great that they understand what is truly happening in the wizarding world. Have a good read.

**In a loop of darkness**

**Chapter 3: It insinuates in our minds, shows us what we want to see… **

Dumbledore's heart was beating so fast that it threatened to fail. Drops of salty water were freely rolling down his cheeks, moistening his long dried skin, awakening it, and telling him that he wasn't dead. Yet.

He had been reading in his small library, surrounded with books, most of which he had written himself in remembrance of the wars he had fought, seated in his favourite armchair in front of the unlighted fireplace. Why hadn't he kindled a fire the past evening despite the cold, he couldn't remember. But what he knew was that sleep had taken him suddenly.

A cracking noise resounded in the room, and he turned his head toward the wood heap. He gasped and froze in his chair, his lungs forgetting to inhale. The shadow was unmistakable, dark and hidden. And behind the mask, silver eyes stared at him with accusation. The sight was hypnotising, and he couldn't get himself to look away. Then the shadow disappeared, and all that was left was the wood.

Even having been only a dream, this image would haunt him for the rest of his life. A body, naked and beaten, broken by time and hands that had once been believed innocent. And this mask. What lay behind it? The young face was concealed, preventing the world to see its wrongs, guardian of their misdeeds, reminder of their sins.

He had something to do. There was something he needed to know.

Severus Snape had always been up with the sun. Retirement hadn't been able to modify this habit of his. When Albus arrived at his house, he indeed was already up and groomed. The old man couldn't help but notice tiny pearls of sweat on his neck. Had Severus been doing exercise recently? None that he recalled. But Severus had never been a man to allow others in his private and healthy life.

Some seconds later, they were discussing the last political decisions in the sitting room, and Draco entered to serve them tea. The boy was fine, as handsome as he had been at the time of their last encounter. But on the fair and white skin, Dumbledore's tricky brain placed the permanent scars, and on the calm and obedient eyes, he superposed the loathing and deadly look. Memories rushed forth in his mind once more, and he shuddered suddenly, out of remaining fear.

Severus smirked. The old man seemed much interested in his slave today. He sipped his tea and settled on observing the reactions of his old friend. Never had he witnessed Dumbledore manifesting the slightest physical attraction for anybody. Had hormones stirred in him at length? Wouldn't it be amusing? The student being led by his past headmaster. A young man by someone that could be his grand-grandfather.

The arrival of Dumbledore had prevented him from properly ending their little morning session. He had been particularly angry this day. Why? He wasn't certain anymore. Surely the boy had made some noise during the night that had bothered his master's sleep. The hotness inside Draco's pure tights had soon made him forget the reasons.

There was no greater pleasure than to whore Lucius to every passing man or woman. To make him suffer torments like Severus had been tortured under Voldemort's reign. To be forced to kneel, to be forced to bow, to be forced to beg. But Draco wasn't Lucius. And Snape hoped that, wherever he was, Lucius was haunted by the sight and cries of his flesh and blood getting what legacy his father had bequeathed him.

Albus went on staring at Draco. He could see what the boy possessed that lured and addicted his master and 'visitors'. He was strong. While he showed a weak and fragile exterior, a tired and yielded mind, his soul was powerful and resistant. His body was the embodiment of an angel. His hair had grown long and silver, his eyes were of an enticing icy blue. A dark angel. Dumbledore had in mind the vision of slaughtered bodies, victims of the death-eaters' butcheries. Draco had been a murderer. He had tortured; he had killed. No, there was no innocence in the young pupils.

The dream had been nothing but one of the many nightmares that plagued his nights. Whatever had led his imagined character into thinking this boy had been a victim had been a twist of his imagination. Still, a doubt lingered…

"Severus," he asked to be sure, "How long does a concealing potion last?"

The Potions Master emitted a small, dark laugh. So, the old man was indeed interested in Draco's body. Was he so horny that the little hours granted by the potion wouldn't be enough for him to be sated? "Two or three hours at the most," he replied, "when the potion has been perfectly brewed, which I highly doubt."

The little flick of Severus' eyes toward Draco left no place for uncertainty. The boy had been concocting concealing potions recently and was using them. Dumbledore frowned. "Is he much…"

But he couldn't finish before Severus had guessed his question. "Spoilt?" he shrugged, "The usual death-eater's share." His own back had long displayed whip marks or scars, results of a badly controlled cruciatus. But just as his, Draco's had now almost disappeared. He only allowed the boy to go on brewing potions so that he wouldn't be too marked after the visit of a revengeful wizard, such as Potter who ought to be passing by soon… All of a sudden, an image shot up in his brain. The sight of a body, damaged to the core and whose face was hidden… What was that now? He could vaguely remember seeing it somewhere… Probably a memory from a death-eaters' orgy… It was still disturbing…

But the coming of his guest drove away Severus' last bad thoughts. Dumbledore took his leave, having not asked for Draco. Maybe the old man would come back some other time.

o-

Dumbledore sighed when he lied between the sheets of his bed, enjoying their warmth and the shaping of the mattress under his body. When only the stars and moon lightened the room, he allowed his mind to wander to the events of the morning. Draco was using concealing potions and had to drink it every couple of hours. After getting this information, he had researched this potion. It had to be applied directly on the wound or scar and burnt horribly, acting as a sort of purifying acid. It was recommended to use it on few occasions or the body would get accustomed to the potion and stop having any effect. For many years now Draco had been at Severus' service. Surely if he had used it regularly, he would have gotten used to it already. Yet he displayed no mark of the horror that Dumbledore had witnessed in the dream.

The old wizard closed his eyes and found sleep, no second thought crossing his mind. But Wind had his own plans…

Morning found him sweating in his bed, body shivering with fear and the reminder of death. Again, the same dream. It couldn't be a coincidence and it couldn't be ignored… He dressed up in a hurry and went back at Severus'… only to meet the head of the Order.

"Albus!" called Harry, "You had the dream too?"

Albus screwed up his eyes, and his forehead wrinkled at the news. So, he hadn't been the only one. It was indeed a premonitory dream. But what was its meaning? Had they all seen the same things or had the dream varied in accordance with the dreamer? Soon, he had his answer…

"Who were these people you went to see in the forest?" asked Arthur Weasley, shaken by the violence of his night. Only in dreams could he savour the existence of colours in the world, for war had left him blind; but his last nightmare had been much too vivid and its colours too bright for his liking.

Dumbledore sighed and scanned the room for the object of his worry. "First, I'd like to know where Draco is."

"I locked him in the basement," Snape informed. He had awoken, feeling but the dolour of the scorching water on his head, of the delicate porcelain gashing his skin. Draco had unsuccessfully tried to kill him a first time, then had come to repair his miss in Saint-Mungo where he was hospitalised. It wouldn't be said his prey would have escaped twice. But Snape's death hadn't stopped his nightmare, and he had been forced to look at the world he knew and believed in falling to crumbles under the attacks of the rebels. Still, these images of decay hadn't shocked him as much as the vision of a body spoilt to the marrow had.

"Had he any mark?" Dumbledore inquired. The old wizard dropped in a chair, his legs forsaking him at length. Hadn't he done enough already? Couldn't he be allowed to die in peace?

"None, and he hasn't drank the concealing potion since at least ten hours ago," Snape snorted. It was evident that this part of the dream had been falsified to throw them into turmoil. He still couldn't keep himself from shivering. This body… It was horrible. He admitted he had beaten the young man, but never to the point of engendering such marks. Such a body couldn't exist; the heart would have failed long ago. It wasn't human.

Albus nodded. The dream had been collective, probably sent by an exterior force, maybe the seers, he proposed when he had explained their role in the war. They could have tried to warn them against a possible future.

"Why would they?" Harry demanded, angered by his quick death at the hand of the death-eater. "They took the rebels' side in the dream. No, I rather think it is Malfoy that found a way to manipulate our dreams and is hoping that we release him out of fear. And he's dreadfully wrong…"

Snape was pensive at the proposition. "It is indeed possible. I have some books that deal with dreams and occlumency. He has access to them… But when I searched his mind, he seemed to know nothing of the..."

He stopped abruptly as his house-elf introduced Mad-Eye, followed by a quartet of aurors. "Snape," he saluted, "I'm here to take Malfoy to Azkaban."

The retired professor wasn't even remotely surprised. At the moment he had heard of the nightmare's widespread victims, he had known the officials would visit, at one time or another. It could get dangerous for the population if the dream came to realisation. Yet, he didn't like it when things got out of his hands. "Why? I can take care of this affair!" Draco was his toy, his property, his token of war; the young man's life was only his to decide of.

"Not when the entire wizarding population is terrified by nightmares showing them a rebellion led by none other than your slave. We're going to take him to Azkaban where he will receive the Kiss. That way, no more problems. You'll have him back just after."

Snape remained silent for a moment. That Draco had a soul or not, he didn't truly care. As long as the boy was alive and in a satisfying physical state, his will had no importance. But how could the boy have arranged that so many people would receive the dream? Snape was no fool; he was well aware that terrorising the population was not the current problem. Oh no… It was that the wizarding world's residents discover pity and affection for Draco's suffering, that they decide the way aurors ruled didn't suit them, that these rats of Hole inhabitants were victims. Because if that occurred, they all were lost.

Snape took a circling look at the Order's members. Potter was approving of this proposition with a nod, Weasley was shaking Mad-Eye's hand, Dumbledore was keeping quiet his opinion on the matter. At length, Snape sighed. Out of life and pleasure, he preferred to remain alive. "Do what has to be done," he simply declared.

At Mad-Eye's request, he led the aurors toward the basement. From where he sat, facing a window, Dumbledore felt the rising fear of the prisoner before he was stunned. The old man didn't pronounce a word; he only wanted to get away. But he couldn't. His subconscious told him he was to accompany the aurors to Azkaban and witness with his own eyes whatever would take place there.

At the end of the Second War, after Voldemort's fall, dementors had been caught. But what to do with them? They had long been kept in cells, next to these prisoners whose jailers they had previously been. In the upshot, a talented Russian wizard had found the solution to their problem: a controlling ward. A small item, resembling a collar, which they put around the dementor's neck. It shrank till fitting properly, and only the ones who knew of the magical password could control or liberate them. The officials had first thought of marking the prisoners the same way but had soon realised that, when the collars restrained dementors, they had no effect whatsoever on humans. Both Azkaban and the dementors had finally been entrusted to the aurors.

The Order's representatives followed the group of aurors when they unbranded the boy's anti-apparition ward and transported him to the prison. The interrogation room matched the old torture rooms of the Middle Ages: a small chamber devoid of windows, its tomb-like walls peeling to powder and covered by spider webs; the only chair of the place furnished with leather straps and iron clips, soldered to the floor, half-encircled by tables charged with metallic instruments of questionable use. These implements of war lightened by the sole and drab ignition of some candles scattered in the corners gave the room the sepulchral atmosphere of a Tribunal of the Holy Office. The aurors tied the boy to the chair and enervated him.

Draco's breath was deep and rash. He peered around himself, his frightened pupils leaping from here to there, lying everywhere but at his captors, shuddering at the sight of the torture instruments. Dumbledore mentally trembled at the memory of the same eyes during the battle that had opposed the Order to the inhabitants of the Hole. They had been empty, hollow of any feeling, as the young hands were killing, spreading death with each of their touches. In these moments, the old wizard had perceived that, if Draco Malfoy had been a mediocre wizard, on the contrary, he was a skilled war leader and, a knife in hand, a savage and destructive opponent.

Albus looked elsewhere when Mad-Eye read the decision of the Auror Council to Draco, and he heard the boy whine out of fear, asking what he had done.

"You have been judged guilty of taking an active part in a series of falsely premonitory dreams, intending to destabilise the government and its policy."

Dumbledore needn't glance at the young man to guess his incomprehension. But the aurors hadn't planned to let him rest. A dementor was introduced in the room, and Albus saw Harry flinch. Albus didn't. He was used to having nightmares and didn't expect that they would one day leave him in peace. He was far too tainted for that.

Bereft of hope, overwhelmed by panic, Draco vaguely fought against his bonds as the dark creature bent over him. And suddenly, he stopped struggling, closed his eyes, and willingly presented his face. His lithe and almost skinny body went on shivering, and a unique tear formed at the corner of his eye.

Dumbledore's heart clutched even tighter at the ethereal sight of a martyr accepting his fate. Could Draco's life have been so horrible that losing his soul was no more than the next step in his decadence? 'But what can I do now that I have allowed this new area to hatch? I should fight for Draco's soul as long as some mysteries aren't disclosed, yet I know much too well that the world would be better safe from the reminders of the death-eaters' atrocities.'

He averted looking at the scene when the dementor's inhuman mouth connected with Draco's lips. It took but a second, and the creature receded, having accomplished his office. Dumbledore was prepared to hear a sigh of relief and alleviation at their enemy being destroyed, but silence followed the repulsive act. He knitted his brows and observed the reactions of the room's other occupants.

"What happened?" Arthur was the first to ask, having not borne actual witness of the display.

"It didn't work…" Severus answered in a whisper.

If the situation hadn't been so serious, Dumbledore would have smiled at the impressed tone in the voice. After the first war, when Snape had been arrested and threatened with the Kiss, he had developed a hidden terror of the dementors. Released, he had spent many years searching for a way to escape losing his soul if he ever came to meet the creatures again. But they had kept their secret. And then, Albus turned toward the death-eater boy.

Draco coughed spasmodically, attempting to get rid of the odour of half-dead flesh on his mouth, of the smell of rotten corpses in his lungs. His pupils dilated with fright, his lips parted only to give way to raged breath; he tensed his muscles and clenched his teeth. His eyes were tainted with blood of ruptured veins; drips of blood flew from his nose, marking the perfectly snowy skin with stripes of dark red. A growl rose in his throat, echoing darkly in his drenched mouth.

He tersely and violently struggled like one possessed, launched against his bonds, moving the chair and vibrating the floor out of uncontrolled fury.

"Let me loose!" he snarled, "Let me loose! I'll kill you!" He glowered at Dumbledore. "Murderer! Murderer! I'll have their heads! All of them! I'll make you watch! You'll be the last, and you'll snuff it alone! Assassin!"

The old wizard tottered at the murdering glare, racked by doubt and horror, unable to quit the jolting body, the revenging eyes, the rough voice and its sharp words.

He could only stare when, in a corner of his sight, Harry reached a table and clutched, without demur, a sharp and pointed poker then came back to Malfoy. The war hero brandished his sword and, as his enemy's look was fixed on his prey, he pierced the offered heart.

Draco's rage doubled at the keen pain, and he inveighed Dumbledore all the more, foaming froth and blood at the mouth, never pausing to notice his aggressor, while Harry tore his weapon from the wounded torso and plunged it once more. The stream of invectives interrupted and the striving stopped but, even dead, the eyes still seemed to look daggers at Dumbledore.

Silence overran the room, and they all stood, staring at the finally defeated body of the monster…

o-

… But this image never ceased haunting Dumbledore. It gnawed his soul at night. He couldn't sleep. Each time he closed his eyes, cracking noises of steps on the parquet forced him to open them again and check that it was nothing but a trick of his imagination. Resolute, he changed the floor into stone and with a sigh, put his head on his pillow. After some minutes of calm during which could only be heard the strong gusty wind on the roof, a shutter banged loudly and he gasped. Grasping his head with despair at his sleepless nights, he cast a soundless charm around him. For protection, he had always preferred to rely on hearing when he was sleeping, but this was too much for his weakened being.

Utter silence surrounded him, and the strangeness of it struck at him. He sent a worried glance in his room and laid back on the mattress, slowly closing his eyes, gradually getting used to the lack of noise. The delicious waves of exhaustion lured him patiently to sleep, rocking his soul and his old bones, leisurely then quicker, stronger, harsher till his entire bed was shaking, and he suddenly opened his eyes to find the room completely soundless.

He passed his hand in his white and, despite the cold, sweat-soaked hair and massaged his scalp to ease the memories away, without success. Even hidden deep inside his Pensive, they remained present, always ready to resurface, at every hour of day or night.

Abandoning the bed, he got up and dressed. Outside, Wind was roaring. After a heartbeat of hesitation, he apparated to Azkaban and was immediately drenched in a shower of rain. He met with the aurors, who let him pass and directed him toward an isolated part of the cemetery.

After Draco's death, the officials had rapidly and conveniently disposed of the body, burying it under seven feet of stained soil, praying his soul would rot in Hell and remain clutched in the Devil's hand. No gravestone marked the exact emplacement of the corpse but days of rain hadn't been able to wash the filth of the blood on the earth.

Dumbledore stayed a long time, watching the immobile ground but for the small forming river of mud.

Five months passed.

Never in any nights had he found sleep again. He had finally resigned himself to spending his days dozing in a broadly lighted and most visited park, or café, when the weather didn't allow him to find peace under the sun. Draco's death had put the people's minds at ease. The enemy's leader was gone; there was nothing more to fear. Their approval lead to a new politic of the aurors: a complete eradication of the Hole. Raids succeeded to decrees and Kiss sentences to captures. The rebels never admitted to having plotted with Draco, proof that they were guilty, and all the more determined to bring their plan into action.

The Hole's inhabitants had fled, two hundred and fifty three had lost their souls and their now will-less bodies were crammed inside Azkaban's cells.

At night, Dumbledore ineluctably was attracted toward Draco's tomb. He stayed hidden in the shadows of the prison's walls next to it till day broke, observing the earth, so completely immobile that the aurors making their patrol had sometimes thought him dead. For security reasons, he could have been refused the entry of the prison's grounds, but after the scene in the interrogation room, reports had somehow declared him slightly… unbalanced.

The great Albus Dumbledore was slowly plunging into Death's claws, out of too much fatigue, too much horror… too much life. The aurors let him stay here and anticipated the day when they would find his cold body on the ground. England's population was already beginning its mourning, and people were coming to see him every day, drowning in the sight of the grand wizard that he had been, as if for the last time he would be seen alive. Immersed in the common beliefs, he also thought his time ended. That is till…

Despite the bright sun they had enjoyed in this beautiful day of June, it was raining again, and a thick and freezing fog was preventing sight beyond some meters. From where Dumbledore stood, he could barely distinguish the piece of ground he had got so used to in the past five months. His eyes were dolefully fixed on the soil as he once more stood next to his wall, similar to a Gargoyle watching over a castle.

'A very, very old Gargoyle…' he thought with a smile, the only sign that he still lived.

His lips stiffened as he perceived a movement in the cemetery. Who could that be? Aurors had long stopped coming to him before the dawn, and the moon was still high in the sky. Through the dense mist, he saw a group of four cloaked people approaching the very tomb he had been surveying and stopping above it. Fascinated, he froze completely, forbidding but his breath to reveal his presence.

The four men circled the ground, delimiting the sepulchre and one, obviously the chief, extended his hand in the air. Magic erupted from his palm and infused the soil with dull beams of grey light as the deep tone of his voice dispersed in the rain's noise. Dumbledore frowned. In spite of the bother caused by the violence of the storm, he could catch some words of the incantation, but it didn't matter to him. No, what interested him was the voice… He had heard it often already, it was…

He jumped and narrowly missed showing himself as his eyes were bound to the earth, which was moving, hit underground, coats of soil lifting up more and more under each blow. A bloody, dirty hand pierced the ground and plunged its nails in it, ensuring its grip. Veins swelled and bones contracted as the hand pulled the rest of the body out. Arms, head, chest, legs, Draco Malfoy had risen. The moving corpse reeled his firsts steps and sniffed the air. His head turned on his backbone and his darkened eyes pierced Dumbledore through the fog, surprising the old man. But Draco soon dismissed his past headmaster, as an animal would an already condemned prey. Five seconds later, the men and their newly resurrected leader had disappeared into the night.

o-

When Dumbledore narrated, the next day, what had taken place in Azkaban, it sent the wizarding world into turmoil. But none made any remark as for the old man's occasion to stop the ritual. He hadn't been able to, that was all. It was already good that he had got out of it safe and sound.

'Safe and sound,' he thought, 'And with too much knowledge of what is going to happen…' While they had cashiered his opinion on the dreams, he had clutched to his idea, fathoming its being right. Soul was Wind's human attribute, and Wind had chosen Draco as his champion. The wizards' future had already been decided.

The rebels didn't waste their time. When the aurors arrived at Ollivander's, his shop had already been sacked. Strangely, the old craft worker was alive, alone in his empty boutique. He had been spared by Draco's madness. Dumbledore was grateful for that: if Fate wanted this world destroyed, so be it, but one life would still have been saved, thanks to Wind's dream. Maybe it had been the intent from the beginning: saving Ollivander for a higher mission. Who would ever know?

At Harry's demand, he joined the Order at Hogwarts. He accepted without conviction. He knew that he wouldn't fight, and that he would find no solution to stop or foresee the attacks. It was destiny. One had been absent at the Order's roll call, though, but only Albus had noticed it, for nobody had heard of him in years. To add to his sadness, the old wizard had a clear idea of where this missing friend may be.

A surprise assault of Azkaban destroyed the prison's grounds. The prisoners were liberated and taken to the Hole whose lowest floors had survived the aurors' raids. The Order had laughed at the uselessness of such an act … till they met with past prisoners, condemned to the Kiss and whose sentence had been executed, who had regained their souls.

Everything was lost. The Ministry was in flames, and no day would pass that Hogwarts would follow. In his room, Dumbledore sighed, feeling the time had come for him to go. Half of them were dead, yet Albus had been spared, just as his fate seemed to be. Draco had said it: he would have to watch the heads of his past friends falling.

Looking a last time at the school which he had spent most of his life in, he disappeared into the forest. After two days of continuous walking, he arrived at his destination. The seers were waiting for him. He didn't ask for help. "How?" he simply inquired. He was tired. He wanted to lie down and let go of life at length.

"We warned you Dumbledore," answered a womanly voice, "But you didn't listen to us. You thought you could get rid of the problem as you took care of Riddle."

A twig getting crackled put an end to the conversation. Dumbledore saw Draco, the same cloak and mask in the dreams. He was accompanied. The member of the rebels was also cloaked, and the shadows of his hood hid his features, but for the brown eyes. Albus had a sad smile before he was blindfolded.

The Hole's common room was as he recalled, proof that the place, having not been destroyed by the aurors, had been deeper that he had dreamily judged.

"Why do you let me live?" he asked Kilch when they faced each other. There was no need to say more. Both had interpreted the seers' warning in which they had told each other what they had to.

The vampire observed him for a long time, looking hard at his face, registering the marks of time. From the depth of their respective souls, Dumbledore suspected that they were akin of age and he wondered a second if they could have crossed in the past.

"Draco seems to think you should be the last to go." The vampire's short hesitation proved his lack of knowledge in his best commander's plan, but the trust he displayed in Draco also showed he had understood the extent of the youth's importance in the civil war.

Noises of a growing battle reached the inside of the Hole, and Kilch was called outside. Dumbledore was entrusted to Draco, and history repeated as he was led to a small chamber. Before the boy could depart though, the old man reached him.

"Why me, Draco?" He had been the head of the Order during the Second War, but it was common knowledge that Draco's hatred of Harry outmatched all the rest.

Through the mask, the blue eyes stared at him thoughtfully, as if gauging him. "Because you try to get out of it."

On this enigmatic answer, the young man strode out of the room. Dumbledore remained alone under the battle sounds. Explosions, cries, shouts… Then nothing. It was finished. His old heart gave away his last beat, and his eyelids closed. And in the instant his breath left his body, as the loop ended its second rotation, he understood.

o-

Albus awoke in his bed, safely tucked under the heavy and warm sheets, soft beams of daylight stroking his cheeks. Hesitantly, he laid feet on the floor and put on his fleecy-lined slippers, a present of Dobby when he had left Hogwarts as a headmaster for good. He tested his legs' strength then, satisfied that he was more fit than in the dream, he exited his room for the library. Here, on the wooden console next to the overstuffed rocking chair, still laid a Potions book, opened at the chapter of the Concealing Potions.

End of Chapter 3


End file.
